


Love in the Days of an Ill-Timed Plague

by ScrapBramble (Nymphalis_antiopa)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Current Events, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Fruit metaphors, Getting Together, Introspection, M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pandemics, Plant Care, Romantic Gestures, lockdown - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29591193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nymphalis_antiopa/pseuds/ScrapBramble
Summary: In the days after the failed Apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale began taking careful steps toward being more open with each other. Unfortunately,  just as things were starting to get cozy, something happened to The World, and it was impossible to ignore it.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 14





	1. Contented and Cozy

DECEMBER 13th

"I'm so glad I managed to reach you," Aziraphale's chipper voice chirped through the tiny speaker of Crowley's smartphone. "You see, my friend Suhani invited me to take part in a plant workshop, and now she's feeling under the weather. I thought it might be just your sort of thing."

"I know what to do with plants, Angel," Crowley growled. "Don't need some pretentious human telling me to play Mozart for my Strelitzia."

"Oh, well, you see, it's more of a project," Aziraphale continued, his tone more careful. "It involves putting together a terrarium. I've already paid for all the materials..."

Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where and when?"

"Oh, you'll come along? Splendid! It's tomorrow evening at eight, in Wandsworth. I'll send you a text message of the address."

And so it was that Crowley found himself standing before an imposing community centre on a cold winter evening. He had taken note of the centre's website, which indirectly pointed to its organizers being affiliated with a non-denominational church. He trusted that Aziraphale would have already established that it wasn't in any way consecrated, but he still hesitated a step before touching the entry doors.

Once inside, a lady quietly knitting something at a card table directed him to the reading room. Only half of the lights were on in the hallway the lady had indicated. He passed through a couple of bands of illumination toward the sound of voices.

The reading room was open, and Crowley took in the sight of ten or so people standing about in the midst of a jumble of terrarium supplies on tables. Two middle-aged ladies were prattling non-stop to an older gentleman with his hands full of ferns. Some younger people, college-aged, were debating over which of the glass enclosures would be most practical for a tiny flat. Crowley made a mental assessment, and decided that there was little he could accomplish in the way of temptations in this crowd. And more to the point, he didn't actually want to. These seemed like people who spun their own yarn, kept bees, or made pies for elderly people at Christmas. They would warn you that your shoulder bag was hanging open in a busy shopping area. No, Crowley could leave them be.

Aziraphale was chatting animatedly with a dark-haired man, likely mid-twenties, wearing a cable-knit sweater.  _ How in the hell does the angel always stand precisely under the right light, so that his hair glows? _ When Aziraphale looked up, his eyes shone and he beckoned Crowley to approach. Crowley decided not to saunter, feeling just a bit out of place among all this wholesomeness.

"Cr- Anthony, dear boy, I was just telling Rudra about your glorious plants," Aziraphale said. "I didn't dare speculate on your methods, not being so well-versed in horticulture, myself."

Crowley briefly shook the hand Rudra had extended. "It's not so much method, more like a regime," Crowley replied. "Can't allow them to think for themselves. They'll be declaring mutiny before you know it."

Both Rudra and Aziraphale chuckled, and then the dark-haired man spoke. "The plants I've brought today are all rather young, so you'll have ample opportunity to beat them into submission." It was clearly meant in jest. Crowley nodded nonetheless, his mouth set in a shrewd line.

Rudra moved to a part of the room in which everyone could see and hear his explanation about the materials. He talked about the self-sustaining ecosphere, and what would be necessary to construct one in the glass enclosures he'd provided. Crowley was only very slightly annoyed at the way in which Rudra referred to the plants as though they had personalities. These were infant plants. They barely knew what sunlight was. It would take another year at least for them to become established (and impertinent).

"Angel, I'm surprised you're not feeling completely militant about this sort of thing happening in a library," Crowley murmured nearby Aziraphale's ear. "We could get potting soil,  _ water _ , on the books."

"Well, they aren't  _ my _ books," Aziraphale whispered back. "And there are certainly no first editions here of any import."

Crowley leaned back, a hand splayed across his chest. "Such callousness. I'm shocked."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

When he got to the main table, Aziraphale chose a large, teardrop-shaped terrarium jar which only just fit in his arms (with a dismissive "Oh, it's only fifteen pounds extra--"). He spent several minutes at the wide, shallow plastic container of pebbles, turning them over in his hands. Crowley matter-of-factly collected a clump of moss, a pan of potting soil and a saucer of activated charcoal.

"Is this the same stuff you put in your smoothies?" one of the older women asked one of the younger ones.

"More or less, yeah. Activated charcoal absorbs the bad stuff in your body," the younger woman told her.

"Maybe we just oughtn't put bad stuff in our bodies to begin with," the older woman replied.

"Says you! I've seen photos of you from the seventies, Mum," the younger woman giggled. "Those weren't regular cigarettes you were smoking."

Crowley looked up from the Hawthornia attenuata he'd been scrutinizing. "To be fair, it's just another plant, really."

The older woman flashed a smug smile to her daughter. "All-natural, that."

The younger woman was also smiling. "Not really good for your lungs, though." She turned her eyes toward Crowley. "I love your tattoo."

_ Ah, yes. Tattoos have become fashionable in this society, too. Even posh people have them. _ "Uh, thanks. Got it a long time ago, when I was roughly your age."

"That can't have been all that long ago," said the older woman, with a wink.

When the angel was finally satisfied that he had chosen the perfect pebbles, they set about assembling the terrarium. Aziraphale handled the materials with great care, even though his broad hand nearly didn't make it through the narrow mouth of the terrarium jar. He watched with great interest as Crowley snaked a slender hand down to place the plants he'd chosen in the potting soil.  _ His face is so close that I can smell the peppermint on his breath, _ Crowley thought, and blushed. He scrunched his eyebrows down so that he would look stern instead of soppy.

"They're very impressionable at this age, Angel," Crowley told him. "Got to keep 'em in line. Choose your words wisely, and don't let them get overinflated egos."

"You do know best, considering your history," Aziraphale chuckled. Crowley wasn't sure if the angel was referring to his years as Warlock's nanny, or his experience in plant husbandry. He felt the radiating warmth of those shining eyes resting on the still-pink plane of his cheek, and a grin slipped quickly onto his face, then away again.

"You should leave the cork tipped open for the first week," Rudra told everyone as they finished up. "But do that at home, not when you go outside later. The plants won't thank you for a bite of freezing December air."

"Speaking of freezing December air," Crowley looked at Aziraphale over the terrarium, "I suppose you came here by public transport...? Can't imagine you lugging your miniature garden all over London in the cold. Shall I drive you home?"

"Yes, please," Aziraphale smiled. A familiar, tiny puff of pleasure dissipated throughout Crowley's breast.

The drive home was ever so slightly calmer than usual, owing mainly to Crowley's consideration of the enormous breakable glass container in the angel's hands and to the rime of ice which had begun to form on the streets. Momentum and inertia weren't things Crowley particularly wanted to test on an evening like this.

"Well, my dear fellow, could I invite you in for a drink?" Aziraphale was all bundled-up warmth and contentment, shifting just a bit in his seat.

_ A drink, a laugh, perhaps daring to rest my head on your shoulder this time. Perhaps I would be close enough to put my mouth on your neck. Would you let me? Would you gasp? Lay your hand on my jaw and let your eyelids fall shut? _

Crowley realized that he had been silent for several seconds. "I--- I'm afraid I can't tonight, Angel. I have a before-dawn scheme I have to set up."

Aziraphale smiled weakly. "Oh, yes, of course. It makes sense for you to maintain your talents. You're good at what you do. Can't let it atrophy."

_ This angel, glossing over his disappointment with compliments _ . Crowley couldn't bear it.

"I'll likely be done before tea time, though," he amended, steadying the terrarium as Aziraphale made to open the door. "We could meet for dinner, anywhere you like."

Aziraphale's smile brightened. "I'd like that. Naturally, you're welcome to come in anytime, whenever you're done for the day."

"All right, Angel. See you tomorrow."

DECEMBER 14th

When Crowley woke at 6 A.M., he had been dreaming of Wessex. Not because he'd felt any particular fondness for the kingdom or its infuriating, pervasive damp weather, but because it was the place in which he had planted the first seed of what was to become The Arrangement. He had been fed up with the whole business, following Hell's detailed instructions with his own creative flair, only to have the angel defuse every one of his wicked schemes before it came to fruition. Crowley had long accepted that Aziraphale was a worthy adversary as well as an entertaining companion, and he was more than ready to throw down his gauntlet in -- well, not surrender, but perhaps a stalemate.

It must have been 1200 A.D. before Crowley realized that Aziraphale had shed a lot of his mental armor. Their meetings were still blanketed by plausible deniability, but the angel was less guarded, more at ease.

Aziraphale made frequent offhand comments that Heaven had tightened the thumbscrews in regards to indulgences, in accordance with the scriptures. Aziraphale felt anxiety and guilt for the human comforts he enjoyed, especially when the Church began referring to them with words like  _ avarice _ and  _ gluttony _ . Crowley disliked seeing the angel stooped under the weight of Heaven's oppression, therefore he diluted his usual level of temptation down to feigning near indifference. "My merchant friend gave me these wineskins in thanks for some good advice," Crowley would say. "It's a shame to waste such a gift, don't you think?" And, if that still didn't take, he resorted to "I wanted to ask you some questions about this blessing before I head for Kiev. Let's discuss it over dinner. I know a good place."

And then, of course, Aziraphale would accept, and they would spend an evening discussing current events over copious amounts of wine. Their time-worn, comfortable game: the angel snipping and snarking, Crowley teasing and tormenting. There was little in the world which Crowley liked as much as getting the angel drunk and doing his level best to drag the two of them into a spiralling discussion which could only end on the vaguest of moot points somewhere around dawn.

After the inception of the Arrangement, Crowley found himself, quite unexpectedly, on the receiving end of exclamations of admiration from the angel. At first, he thought it was gratitude for the streamlined process and simple acknowledgement of a job well done. But as time went on, he realized that it didn't matter whether he had done a blessing or a temptation. Though Aziraphale often murmured or whispered the compliments, the implication was unmistakable.  _ Aziraphale was impressed by things Crowley thought up. _ This, coming from an angel whose intelligence knew seemingly no bounds, was something Crowley found incredibly flattering.

He had to admit that it was a welcome counterbalance, when his superiors in Hell ordinarily did little more to mark his successes than a curt nod, or a noncommittal written commendation. Not that Crowley wanted Hell to pay too much attention to him. He'd seen enough demons mercilessly mocked when they hoped for recognition for a job well done. No, it was best to downplay your own cleverness in Hell.

The surprise of small kindnesses always picked him up again, through every new development in human history. Humans were especially good at those insignificant gestures. His demonic nature often attracted the villains of human society, but he also encountered anomalies of surprising stubbornness; good, gentle humans who witnessed his disappointments or bouts of melancholy and took it upon themselves to comfort his frayed nerves.

In the long, weary stretch of his life, he had had precious little opportunity to enjoy something soft, gentle, or vulnerable. Temptations which resulted in the press of a warm body were a grim success but also a consolation prize for what he really wanted. He wanted to be held, accepted,  _ known _ . Kisses and embraces mimicked his heart's desire, but were almost never for him; they were grain for Hell's infernal mill. Small kindnesses were the only thing which really felt like carefully-chosen gifts. Crowley held onto any shreds of gentleness he was given, hiding them away and wrapping them around his shivering heart.

From the twelfth century onward, he and the angel cut a path through the mire of blessings and temptations assigned them. Commendations piled up on Crowley's desk, and remained absent from Aziraphale's. (The times that Crowley made mention of it, Aziraphale dismissed it as Heaven being much too busy with the Greater Good to bother with individual recognitions. “ _ I am confident that I am a necessary toothwheel in the great clockwork _ ,” he said.) In any case, both of their sides were reassuringly gullible and frustratingly ignorant of the human experience, which made their covert collaboration an easy thing to conceal.

As his association with Aziraphale gradually put forth roots of familiarity and anchored itself in centuries of fertile ground, Crowley hoped that _friends_ was the fruit it would bear. (This clumsy metaphor spoke to him; he would always be a gardener at heart.) He'd had the smallest of morsels of friendship with humans; fruits which knew only a short season before winter struck them.

But the angel, that was a fruit which had taken millenia to become fully ripe. He knew its flavor well; it had bloomed across his palate every time Aziraphale had worried after him or expressed concern for his well-being. (The bandstand had been the exception: it was everything but literal fruit dissolving to vinegar in his mouth. He had choked on it. When Aziraphale came back to him, the relief of the sweetness was staggering.)

Now, after all was said and all was done, he began to wonder what more could be made from the fruit of their friendship. A sweet distillation, sharp on the tongue? A thick and gleaming compote, heavy and rich, to warm one's insides when snow lay on the ground? 

_ Perhaps I'm being entirely selfish. All this time, Aziraphale's been desperate to make me feel welcome in any way he could. _ Under every one of his skin-crawling assertions for the ears of Heaven, the angel was still inviting him in, asking what he thought, listening to what he said.  _ It means he cares, and I'm glad. _ What it  _ didn't _ mean was that Aziraphale wanted to snog him, or hold him, or take him to bed. Though Crowley positively ached for these things, he had to condense his desires into something more palatable. He had his --- had  _ the _ angel's affection and acceptance. He should be grateful for that one certainty; fruit borne through every season.

He was, of course, grateful that his friend knew what his life was like. Only the two of them knew the vexation of having to curb their powers and quash their true natures throughout the ages of the Earth to appease their distant, callous masters. Both the demon and the angel had faced myriad bouts of helplessness, tears streaming, watching the chaos. Heaven demanded cool distance and non-interference. Hell demanded aggravation, and that one throw oneself into the thick of it. As the worst of humanity erupted again and again, as wars tore them to pieces and plagues and disasters raged across every continent, Crowley felt increasingly certain that neither of their masters was watching the proceedings on Earth at all.

Furthermore, on the rare occasions that Crowley had seen Aziraphale's unburnt, snow white wings, he had adequate proof that no one was keeping tabs on Heaven's agents, either. As far as he was aware, Aziraphale never really toppled into abject  _ sin, _ but he determinedly skirted the edges. On one hand, it was a relief that Crowley wouldn't have to look on, powerless, while his -- while  _ the _ angel was cast out of Heaven, but on the other, it meant that Heaven's  _ other _ agents were capable of virtually any renegade behavior they could come up with, without recompense.

He was banking on the fear he and Aziraphale had instilled in their former employers to keep further repercussions to a minimum, but in the interest of favoring the small, still voice of doubt, Crowley had decided to set up miracled alarms all over Aziraphale's bookshop and in his Mayfair flat. Testing them was a rather involved process, as the alarms had to respond to both angelic and demonic presence, while also ignoring the presence of one specific angel and demon. There were a couple of false starts and nerve-shattering malfunctions, but they eventually got it right.

Crowley couldn't let his guard down. Not when there was so much he could lose.

Aziraphale immediately ceased his ridiculous lip service to Heaven within a day of the failed Apocalypse. He slipped up only once, and that was shortly after he received a memo from Heaven about a set monthly limit on miracles. In a fit of anxious indignance, he had flapped out something insensitive about not having Fallen, and Crowley had bristled and left. It took less than three minutes for Aziraphale to call Crowley's mobile phone and leave a voicemail message which was abruptly cut off by the maximum time of the service. Crowley waited for a respectable few hours before he called the angel back.

The angel also seemed to be determined to assert that he and Crowley were  _ dear friends _ , to anyone even remotely inclined to listen. Friends of Aziraphale's would come in for tea, or to attend some stuffy book club, and Aziraphale unfailingly beckoned Crowley to join them. The demon tried, he really tried, not to preen under Aziraphale's open affection and praise, but he had, after all, only recently met with its novel, radiant warmth. He let the knowing looks in the eyes of the humans settle on him as he luxuriated in the angel's regard.  _ Yeah, that's right. Best friend, that's what I am. This divine creature wants me around. _

As the months passed, there were human gestures. The gift of each other's time, given again and again. The surprising, welcome weight of being allowed to touch each other. Crowley endeavored to touch Aziraphale in whatever unobtrusive way he could, as often as he could, in the hope that it would become a natural thing. Aziraphale must have subscribed to a similar notion, because his hand alighted more and more frequently on Crowley's arm or shoulder. Once or twice, he even carefully entwined their fingers together --  _ in public _ , and Crowley managed to not discorporate.

Crowley was reasonably sure that these were all portentous of a resounding turn for the better. He very nearly dared to hope that he might finally be allowed to warm himself in a much closer proximity to Aziraphale's glow.

_ How would that come to pass? _ he wondered, his gaze drifting over the milling holiday shoppers.  _ I've always given him space. Sometimes an entire hemisphere. _ Hesitant winter sunshine glinted on the flagstones, and the Saturday crowd commenced the pre-holiday scramble. Clouds of breath dispersed in the morning light as people shuffled about. The shops had been open for an hour or so. Crowley stood outside a purse shop with a miracled triple espresso, glad of the distraction of his own devices playing out before him.  _ Don't look at your thoughts about Aziraphale directly. _ Before dawn, in a burst of creative inspiration, the demon had set up a temptation trap of sugary, overpriced "Wellness Tea" and "Clean Cocoa" in a posh-looking stand on the main thoroughfare. Before initiating his plan, he hunkered down in the still-closed stand and fiddled with product designs, consulting Pinterest (another of his successes) for especially pretentious ones. Then, satisfied with his miracled biodegradable plastics, he left the stand and began a performative string of muttering and curses while clumsily unlocking the display doors.

The first temptation had been an easy one: the sign he'd posted, reading "Now hiring friendly baristas!" had almost immediately drawn in a young woman. She inquired politely, taking in Crowley's feigned stress in setting up the products. Crowley fed her a tale of an under-the-weather employee calling in sick at the very last minute, and he, a put-upon proprietor, being in quite a pinch. He offered an hourly rate of sixty pounds, to which the young woman, nonplussed, more or less instantly agreed.

Then, it was simply a matter of standing back and watching it all happen. He took up a post at some distance away to observe the temptation as it exuded its influence. A flare of satisfaction flickered through Crowley whenever he saw yet another unwitting person succumb to the inexorable pull of activated charcoal matcha latté or turmeric cocoa (and he could inwardly tell himself,  _ yep, still got it _ ). Eventually, he set off into the city to look around for a birthday gift for a human friend, and to get a manicure -- Aziraphale, the bastard, knew what he was on about. Having one's nails fussed over and prettied was soothing.

Evening dark began to settle in around 4:30, and Crowley returned to his temptation trap to relieve the human barista he'd hired. He cooly flicked five hundred pounds from his wallet and handed them over. "You turned a really nice profit, I'd say," the human grinned at him, exchanging her apron and the ledger for the handful of money Crowley held out. "There seems to be a future in this wellness rubbish."

"I can't disagree with you," the demon replied. "I'll get it all packed up. You go on home, now."

He tipped the cover flap off the roof of the stand and padlocked the front. A quick snap of his fingers transferred the day's earnings out of the till and into Crowley's bank account. He consulted his watch: he had just enough time to restyle his hair before heading to the bookshop.

BOXING DAY

Crowley opened the door of the bookshop at eleven in the morning on Boxing Day. He had a large paper bag slung over one arm, which he deposited on the table near the spiral staircase. There were sounds of things being moved about from upstairs, and Crowley hesitated for a moment before ascending a few steps. "You know, Angel, the song said something about 'God rest ye merry gentlemen.' Isn't this supposed to be a day off work?"

The angel emerged from one of the rooms, his arms full of books. "I think you'll find that the song in question pertains to yesterday, dear boy. I was just getting a few things out of the way, so that we might have a proper place to sit."

"Can I help with anything?"

Aziraphale looked pensive. "If you wouldn't mind rolling up the map on the table in the sitting room? And maybe the candles and the rest of the books, just to clear it all up---"

"I'm on it." Crowley went to address the clutter. The sitting room was a warm space with a little fireplace, finely-made furniture and large windows flanked by heavy velvet drapes. The pale morning sunshine lit the edges of the velvet with gold (and revealed how much dust the angel had allowed to settle on everything). A quick miracle banished the dust to sully some self-important person's expensive record collection. Crowley snapped once more to start a cozy fire behind the grate of the fireplace. He breezed past the angel to retrieve the bag he'd brought, and then offered it up with a vaguely theatrical bow.

Aziraphale leaned to breathe in the buttery scent of freshly-baked pastry which wafted from the bag (as Crowley knew he would). The angel sighed appreciatively, and Crowley could not suppress a grin.

The claustrophobic closet of a kitchen yielded plates and utensils, but Crowley had to miracle an electric kettle for the tea. He scrutinized the wall above the sink, then compelled a small window to manifest itself.  _ Much better. If I miracle up a little more space, an oven and range-top, we could cook something in here -- _ \- He stopped short, his domestic daydream making him blush. Even his daydreams of being a spy or an international man of mystery didn't occupy his thoughts as often as this sort of thing did.  _ Just the simple and pleasant of the everyday. Like I've seen so many thousands of humans do. _

Aziraphale peeked around the doorframe. "A window, how lovely! It makes the space much more inviting. I must admit, I've been considering taking another crack at baking; I might get an oven put in."

"You should," Crowley said, swallowing down the sudden, happy tightness collecting in his throat.

They enjoyed the breakfast -- debating whether or not it ought to be called "brunch" -- and Aziraphale recalled the custom in ancient Assyria to have beer with breakfast.

"I don't remember which place it was," the angel said, "but there was a cookery down one of the side streets near where I was staying in Damascus, and they did this divine spiced barley stew with turnips, chickpeas and apricots. I loved to buy an extra large portion and then eat the second half for breakfast the next day. It paired so well with that brown beer! I wonder if I could recreate it?"

Crowley was only half-listening, nodding at pauses, remembering how he had briefly shadowed the angel's footsteps in Damascus during the second century. Hell hadn't officially given him any orders to be there, but he fabricated a convincing tale about how he established corruption and criminal activity on the trade routes to and from the city. Aziraphale went about his business among the dwindling Christian population while Crowley held back and simply observed. Everyone was taken with the ingratiating holy man with the light hair (a feature which was not yet associated with invaders and Crusaders -- that would come much later). He watched the angel as he sat with children and told them the faith-based stories sanctioned by Yeshua's followers. He could also be found in the evenings talking philosophy and politics with his fellows in all the best eateries. Those eyes sparkled in spite of whatever gloom they encountered, their color changing in exactly the manner of the waves in the ocean: green to blue to gray and back again. Crowley drifted in them.

In the evening they ordered in (a selection of sushi, dumplings and other delights from one of London's better takeaways with a responsible fish sourcing policy), and settled in to watch  _ The Big Fat Quiz of the Year. _ Crowley's sunglasses had been perched on a stack of books since noon, so he had to be more subtle while letting his gaze linger on Aziraphale whenever the angel burst out laughing at the contestants' answers.

Later they opened up the silky single malt whisky which Aziraphale had acquired especially for the holidays, savoring the snappy fruit tones and the fragrant essences.

"Bourbon oaked," Aziraphale wobbled his tumbler, watching the golden liquid coat the glass. "When was that series of temptations in America, again, when you got into the -- well,  _ questionably legal _ whisky production?"

"Prohibition," Crowley nodded, taking a sip, the burn striking his soft palate. "Nineteen twenty-seven. And it was bourbon."

"Right, yes. Although bourbon  _ is, _ technically, whisky."

"There's a  _ distinction _ . Same as Champagne. Has to come from Kentucky."

"I prefer my whisky to come from this side of the Atlantic," Aziraphale told him, taking another prim sip.

His memory gave him a few vague images from the assignment in Kentucky; none of them reminding him of the enjoyable parts. "Did you ever try that bourbon? Can't recall."

"Dear boy, I was in New York at the time. We only saw each other there, at that place in Manhattan."

Crowley reached into the ether and drew out a half-full bottle of bourbon, the glass cloudy with age. "Let's see if I can change your mind. Lucky for you, I still have a bit left."

The angel's mouth opened in surprise, and he took the bottle in hand. "You must have miracled the cork, I assume?"

"Yes. Should I get another glass?"

Aziraphale produced one out of thin air before Crowley could rise from the couch. He watched the demon pour a thin disk of liquid into the tumbler. At the first swallow, the angel closed his eyes. "Hmmm," Aziraphale intoned, with the tiniest of smiles. "That  _ is _ quite nice." He took another sip.

_ He doesn't like bourbon, but he's drinking the one I brewed like he can't get enough of it. _ Crowley's mouth felt dry. He waited for his friend to open his eyes again.

"I do believe you've changed my mind a smidgen," Aziraphale said at last. "Though it's likely also down to your wily nature."

"Doubt it. I never needed any wiles before, to get you interested in specialty alcohol."

"Hush, now, foul tempter."

"You're just annoyed because you like it."

Aziraphale's smile merged into a grin, and he focused on the contents of his glass.

Crowley ended up spending the night on Aziraphale's couch upstairs, which was more plush and comfy than the one downstairs. He rested his head on a goosedown pillow ("It's always on the bed, but it's barely ever been used," Aziraphale told him. To which Crowley's brain immediately clamored,  _ By you, Angel? Or by someone else? _ ). Aziraphale produced a knitted wool blanket from a closet. It easily draped over Crowley's entire supine form, and then some.

The two of them first sat in companionable silence, having miracled themselves into their respective sets of pajamas. Crowley had seen Aziraphale in all manner of garments throughout the centuries, but he could barely suppress his fondness at Aziraphale dressed in flannel pajamas with a white cloud-on-blue print. The angel even had fluffy slippers. Crowley felt a tad overdressed in his black satin sleep attire, but he preferred it. The fabric didn't chafe his scales if he unconsciously manifested them while he slept.

When Crowley woke, Aziraphale had just prepared a modest breakfast of toast with butter and jam, and several hard-boiled eggs (which he knew the demon liked). Warm and muzzy, he sat up and saw that the angel had also made a three-cup stovetop pot of espresso for him, and he didn't know how to properly cope with the blaze of fondness which lit up inside him.

"I read in the television guide that 'Whistle Down the Wind' was showing at eleven," Aziraphale commented as Crowley took a seat across from him. "I've only ever seen the first twenty minutes or so. Care to watch with me, in a bit?"

"Sure," Crowley said. Then, not wanting to appear too eager, "Got nothing else on."

As they sat together, cups of coffee and tea in hand and with the wool blanket tucked in around both of their knees, Crowley allowed himself to bask in the domestic reality --  _ No daydreaming here _ . He wanted to spend every subsequent post-Christmas week like this, for as long as Aziraphale would welcome it.

NEW YEAR'S EVE

Crowley had had some trouble choosing the Champagne. Aziraphale favored a demi-sec over a brut. The angel had expounded at enthusiastic length last summer about the pink Champagne from Bollinger (and the accompanying strawberries) Crowley had brought him. However, one also couldn't go wrong with Moët & Chandon, in respect of consistent quality. Also, it had to follow their dinner harmoniously, without any missteps.

After consulting four shops and scrutinizing a half-dozen different Champagnes in one afternoon, Crowley finally settled on the Bollinger (mainly because it was in a pretty box). He strolled into the bookshop at ten minutes to five and offered the extremely pink box to Aziraphale, who was fussing with a different waistcoat in front of a small mirror.

"Oh, how you do spoil me, dear. A rosé! I'll put it in the icebox in a moment, once I get this fabric all situated."

"Situated?" Crowley's mouth twisted into a smirk. "Has it been unruly, then?"

The angel sighed. "Oh, it's just that I haven't worn it in ages. I had to do a miracle or two --" his face reddened slightly "--to bring it up to current standards of neatness."

Crowley melted affectionately, on the inside. Reading between the lines, he could tell that Aziraphale had needed to let the waistcoat out a little to accommodate his belly. He wanted to say something reassuring, about modern standards being utter bollocks, or at the very least a disarming remark about the angel being the picture of a distinguished gentleman, but he was preoccupied with admiring the soft curve of that belly wrapped in finely-woven amber-colored silk.

"You look fine," Crowley eventually managed.

Aziraphale quirked a half-smile at him while he reached for his overcoat.

It was while they were having dinner that Crowley first picked up a strange current; a barely perceptible tickle on an occult sub-level. He tipped his sunglasses down his nose and turned his head to look around the restaurant, half expecting to see one of Hell's minions. It was a thorough enough examination that Aziraphale lowered his voice to a whisper. "Is there something amiss, Crowley?"

He waited another moment before responding, his tone likewise muted. "No. I thought I felt Hellish influence, but I must have been wrong. There really isn't anything here. It's -- weird. Maybe something residual. But don't worry yourself, Angel. Whatever might happen, I'll know it's here long before we're in any danger."

"We needn't fear, as long as we're together," Aziraphale said, and that utterance left Crowley undone. His throat tightened, and he didn't smother the soppy expression which must have been on his face. He wanted to rise from his chair and take the angel into his arms and squeeze him.

At ten minutes to midnight, Crowley's phone began to ring from his pocket. He thought it odd, because he had purposefully switched it to silent.  _ It had better not be Hell _ , he thought. The number wasn't familiar, but he was curious, so he took the call.

"Hello, Mister Crowley? It's Adam Young speaking."

"Hello, Adam. I assume you're not calling to wish me a happy new year."

"Sorry, afraid not. I'm calling because I've had this horrible feeling all week, and I just realized what it reminds me of."

An icy thread twined itself around Crowley's spine. "What did the horrible feeling remind you of?"

"It was the same feeling I had when I knew the Horsemen had been summoned. It's not as strong as it was then, but I know what it means. It means one of them is active. Active right now."

Crowley stood and stared out at the night for a moment. "Any idea where?"

"It seems to be somewhere East of here. It doesn't feel close."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but... why are you telling me?"

"Well, when the Horsemen came around the first time and my friends and I sent them away, and the angel and demon bosses showed up, you and Mister Fell were the only ones who seemed willing to do anything to help."

"Fair enough. Well, I'm glad you told me, Adam. I'll see if I can find out what's going on, and whether I can do anything about it."

"Thanks, Mister Crowley. And happy new year."

So. The wiring of Crowley's brain rarely let him down. Even on days on which it resembled nothing so much as a horse-drawn cart missing a wheel on each side being sloughed through a swamp, Crowley knew that it would ultimately grant him an idea if he clung on tenaciously enough.

There was little to go on. Adam Young had sensed a Horseman to the East, not nearby. However, the presence of any one of the four implied Something Big was about to happen. And, while Crowley wasn't keen on encountering them, he had as much as promised Adam he would do some inquiries.

He could handle it. He was a free agent, but he still had his powers. And besides, he knew how to avoid discorporation. Nearly 6000 years of calculated beguilement and contrivance had served him well enough.

He didn't want the angel to worry. He simply wouldn't tell him.

Crowley returned to stand with Aziraphale on the other side of the bookshop. He took up his champagne glass once more and clinked it against Aziraphale's, answering the angel's cordial smile with a sharp-toothed grin of his own. Then, he thought about his current mission, and frowned into his glass. "So, uh, Angel... I'm going to have to leave London for a few days. There's something I have to look into in the old country."

Aziraphale sipped his drink and looked pensive. "Look into?"

_ Bless it, Crowley, you knew he was going to ask questions. _ "It has to do with that phone call just now. Don't know what it's about. I can't really discuss it until I'm clear on the details."

Every ounce of relief he could have possibly called upon washed over him when the angel shrugged and said, "Business is business. I hope it goes well." Then, Aziraphale  _ actually stepped close to him and brushed his lapel, which had been slightly askew, flat _ . He wasn't looking at Crowley's eyes when he said, "Perhaps we could take in a show when you return?"

Crowley swallowed, and pulled in a hitching breath. "Definitely."

The angel raised his eyes at last, a shy smile glimmering. "I'll be pleased to have you back."

Crowley stared, transfixed. He had no reply, just continued hanging in that gaze.  _ Snake charmers could do this _ .

Aziraphale's smile widened as he looked away, releasing Crowley. He appeared for all the world to be pleased at his own daring.  _ Was that what it was? Was that -- an advance? _

Crowley downed the rest of his champagne in a single gulp.

When Crowley was taking his leave, Aziraphale asked if his plants would need any care while he was away. "It's no trouble to pop in and water them."

"No idea how long I'll be gone, but they'll be fine for a week or so. They're much more obedient without overwatering, and angelic  _ TLC _ ." (He might have sneered a little on those three consonants, but he was overcompensating for still being completely thrown by Aziraphale's careful overture.)

Aziraphale  _ tsked _ , though his expression was still fond. As he opened the door to let Crowley out, the demon slipped a hand carefully between the angel's fingers and the handle.  _ Two can play at this little game of affectionate gestures. _ Aziraphale suppressed a gasp while Crowley moved to kiss the knuckles of his left hand.  _ I do love how your eyelashes flutter, Angel. _

"Good-night, Aziraphale."

The angel stammered in answer, recovering just enough for a careful smile. "S-safe journey, dear boy."


	2. Static and Dismay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley travels East, then further East, to try and find out what is going on.

Crowley stalked through Heathrow dragging a metallic black carry-on, its wheels miracled to bypass any amount of friction physics could throw at them. His flight was to Barcelona, which seemed as good a point as any to take stock of supernatural forces. He planned to hit a few of civilization's major historical sites of influence. It would take only the slightest exertion to travel onward to Rome, then to Montenegro. The capital city had been Titograd the last time he was there, and centuries before that, he'd had a temptation in Doclea (which Aziraphale had done in his stead). Crowley quite liked Black Mountain. He wanted to see the Moraĉa river valley again, preferably with Aziraphale. He could probably tempt the angel with offers of mountain vistas, not to mention baklava, _Šampita_ and that savory barley-mushroom porridge he'd been mad about.

The sun's rays drenched the clouds beneath the plane, calling up a mental image from sometime in the first century AD, of Aziraphale standing backlit in the doorway of Crowley's room in Athens, as though he were truly the herald of the dawn. He couldn't remember what had prompted the visit, but his mind retained that inquisitive, amicable face. He fell into a doze, dreaming of Greek sunshine and lost conversations.

Barcelona was thronged with tourists, even in January. Crowley investigated every landmark he was capable of entering, but even though he got a subtle _ping_ of something being off, he couldn't pinpoint it. There was a pervasive, low-grade sort of unease coming inexplicably from groups of people. He spent just over 48 hours in the city, bought a bottle of Ribero del Duero and a block of _Turron de Jijona_ for Aziraphale, and boarded a train bound for Rome.

Crowley disembarked from the connecting train at Roma Termini station, barely a couple of kilometers from the Pantheon and the Colosseum. Rome had pulled in a remarkable crowd for the time of year, too. There were people everywhere. All of the Christian landmarks threw off enough holy energy to make him itch, but it was no worse than London, all things considered. He spent a day prowling the city (giving the Vatican an extremely wide berth), listening and extending lines of essence. On the first night he saw another demon crossing the street. The demon's eyes flashed at first, but then she recognized Crowley and set off running. He didn't see her again.

Later, as he sat on the topmost ring of the Colosseum at 3 A.M. and sent Aziraphale a well-angled selfie, Crowley realized that perhaps he was going about his search in the wrong way. In order to find one of the Horsemen, he would have to go to places in which they were more likely to have a foothold.

 _War would likely be operating in Syria at present,_ he thought, _but it will be very hard to get into any place in conflict. If I didn't want to waste miracles, I'd be hitchhiking for weeks, probably rolled up in dirty laundry in car trunks. Also, it's a literal war zone._ He rubbed his chin. _Leave War for last._

Famine was another difficult one. North Korea seemed a plausible candidate, but Crowley knew he'd have to burn through quite a few miracles for that one, too. Plausible deniability, well-practiced though he was in the art, had its limits. He wasn't keen on being discorporated by trigger-happy border officials, and for every guard you could see, there were at least two snipers you couldn't.

That left Pollution. Crowley shut his eyes, his mind a widening gyre. He thought about the Pacific Ocean, with its catastrophic mass of plastic. Did the Pacific Ocean count as East? Where did the hemisphere start, again? Turning the globe in his mind's eye, he pictured the endless miles of greenhouses in Africa, growing roses for the European market and belching out seas of waste from chemical fertilizers. But Africa was more South than East. He considered China, where smartphone manufacturing had major centers which busily skimmed off the raw materials they needed and indifferently dumped the rest. Where should he start? Where was it worst?

While Crowley walked back to his hotel, he felt a lingering unnatural shock, like electricity from dry air. He turned to see where it had originated. There was a woman standing in the doorway of a café he'd just passed, and she seemed to be having a coughing fit. Of course, it was January, and humans tended to have more colds and flu in general. But something about this coughing fit made the hairs on Crowley's neck stand up. He began slinking a little closer, just to see if the discomfort increased. And indeed, there it was: a succession of crawling pinpricks, surprisingly tangible in his otherwise unperturbed essence. He watched as the woman's companion laid a hand on her forehead, then babbled something in a low voice, and the two of them left the café. Crowley, keeping a safe distance, followed them.

The young woman's friend led her to what was presumably her own flat. They stood for a moment on the steps outside, and the woman coughed again and shook her head at her companion. The companion's face bore a concerned expression, and they said something in an earnest tone. They said good-bye, and Crowley observed how the static electricity receded from his senses as the woman retreated into her flat.

 _I'll pick this up again tomorrow,_ Crowley thought. _I really hope this doesn't mean what I think it does._

In the morning, he took a taxi to Fiumicino International Airport, cautiously extending threads of his essence again to see if he could pick up any more of the static electricity sensation. When he stepped out of his taxi, he was nearly bowled over. The static was bad here. It was omnipresent, silently zapping him from all sides. He suppressed the urge to flinch to avoid it.

He willed himself to keep moving against the onslaught of unpleasant prickles, which was very like rolling in thorn bushes (something he had involuntarily done once in the thirteenth century; it occurred immediately after being thrown off a horse). When he finally encountered the epicenter of the grating static, it was not a place, but a group of humans. They appeared entirely unremarkable. All skin tones were represented in the group, and presumably an assortment of genders. Most were smartly dressed, with a few outliers in street clothes. Crowley could almost _hear_ the static on them, like an untuned radio. Because they were moving quickly and might disperse at any moment, he matched their pace and fell in step with someone who had been paying close attention to their smartphone.

"Hey, sorry to bother you, but I can't remember our flight number," Crowley said to the human walking beside him. "I need to text it to work right now, but I can't find my boarding pass."

The human glanced up at him, looked back at their phone, and then poked the screen. "Sure. One minute." A few seconds later, the human said, "It's CA 9101."

"Thanks, you're a lifesaver," Crowley told them, and then pulled out his own smartphone and ducked away from the group.

 _East_. Crowley pondered. He sighed and booked a ticket to Delhi, preparing himself for a long flight followed by what would probably be another barrage of static.

When he arrived in India eight hours later, Crowley found precisely what he'd anticipated: static clinging to about every fifth person he encountered. There was also a strange sort of miasma in the air, in spite of the air filtration units integrated into much of the airport's interior design. He wished for a moment that he had a more precise antenna for currents of supernatural energy. All he had was his own demonic essence (which could mainly pick up the infernal and occult) and his serpentine sense of smell (which had a very small operational radius). He left the airport and went to stand in the midday sunshine, veering away from the taxis queing up and swallowing passengers. Though it was uncomfortable, he cast out a few new threads of his essence. Something _twanged_ , startling him. "Hmmm," he muttered, kicking listlessly at his rolling suitcase.

Crowley ended up wandering toward the particularly resonant thread. Delhi wasn't swelteringly hot in January, so walking wasn't unpleasant. He had stowed the rolling suitcase into a pocket dimension, wanting to be as unencumbered as possible in this city he had only been in once, a very long time ago. He passed through a few upscale neighborhoods and another couple of ramshackle ones. The modern buildings were juxtaposed with ancient structures with seemingly little acknowledgement between them. Signage on buildings varied from rough and hand-painted to four-color custom-printed. Sidewalks appeared and then were abruptly cut off. 

He found the thread’s origin after walking across a city park. A wide plaza paved with square terracotta tiles stretched before a temple complex. The impression Crowley got was “hectic,” because there were people everywhere, selling food and drinks, waiting for others, sitting on their bedrolls. Cars and buses filled the spaces of the parking areas flanking the plaza. Thin strains of music whispered out from inside the walls. He could feel that the complex before him was thrumming with an invisible power even before he crossed the street, and that made him curious. He couldn't go inside; the ground was undoubtedly consecrated. Besides, Hindu deities were, by and large, opposed to demons as a general rule.

He prowled around the perimeter for a few minutes, sizing the place up. Gathering up some courage, he stepped just inside the main gate, an elaborate structure with flags, multiple turrets, and an intricate spire. It was blessed, surely, but there wasn't any burning happening, so at least that was in his favor.

"A serpent," a voice spoke from his left. "One of my favorite motifs."

Crowley turned to look at the speaker, a man dressed in an expensive suit. There wasn't anything extraordinary or disturbing about him, but something about his eyes made Crowley want to cower at his feet. _This certainly isn't a human being._ Just inside the edge of the man's open collar, Crowley could see the chain of a necklace with small beads in the shape of heads. The man looked appraisingly at Crowley and tapped a hand against the pocket square of his suit. The fabric bore a squiggly embroidered snake print. Beside the man sat a very large dog, panting contentedly.

"Hello," Crowley said, at a bit of a loss. "May I ask who you are?"

"Today I am Bhatuk Bhairav. But it's easier for English speakers to just say Bhairava."

Crowley could speak over five hundred languages, but he wasn't about to correct someone half his age with arguably twice his power. "Is this your temple?"

"It is the temple of several. But I am one of those. Ordinarily, I wouldn't let you near it, but I heard all about that nonsense with the Apocalypse. You seem a good sort. Not used to that, coming from demons."

"To be honest, the kids did most of the heavy lifting in the whole thing--"

"So, how is your terrarium?" Bhairava asked, idly scratching the chin of the enormous dog at His side.

"My-- what?" Crowley hadn't known precisely what to expect of a conversation with a Hindu god, but being asked about the product of a one-off workshop which occurred almost a month ago at a community center in London was, nonetheless, a complete non-sequitur.

"You had a Hawthornia and a few succulents, yes? You and your angel friend?"

"Uh, yeah. How do you know that, exactly?"

"Rudra is one of my incarnations," Bhairava replied, in a tone which might have been used for commenting on the pleasant weather.

Crowley could only nod in reply, his head still dealing with the debris of the derailment of his thoughts. "They're, um, fine. The plants. I checked them last week."

"Watch out for slugs. They can be sneaky."

"Thanks." Crowley had gotten his thoughts back in order. "You know, uh, I came here because I was searching for something."

"Maybe Ganesha would be a better choice," Bhairava told him, taking a sip of whatever was in the mug He was holding.

Crowley was used to occasional blatant dismissal, but it hit differently when coming from an ancient deity. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and then tried again. "Right. Well, that is--"

"They call him Saudā. The one you are trying to find," Bhairava told him. "Sometimes rides through parts of this country, too, on a horse covered with boils. The other fellow, on a horse of skin and bones, comes with him, occasionally."

Crowley sighed. "I was worried that was the case."

"Saudā is a pesky one, but there are energies waiting to combat him," Bhairava continued. "A lot of the humans don't know he's here yet."

"Do you know where he is?"

"Pieces of him have gotten everywhere. But he himself is likely further East. The Buddhists are making commotion, which got my attention."

"So... China." Crowley said. "Big place, China."

"I can feel significant disturbance coming from roughly the Southeast. A thunderstorm on the radar." The god raised His face to look up at the threadbare blue of the January sky.

Crowley consulted his most recent mental map of China. "Hong Kong?"

"Not so far as that." Bhairava scratched the big dog gently behind its ears, and gave Crowley a shrug. "Like I said, Ganesha might be better help."

"No problem," Crowley shook his head, a gesture to forgive the lack of specificity. "I'll keep looking."

Bhairava nodded, then drained His mug and put it aside. His dark skin seemed more luminous than before, and Crowley realized that the mug probably contained an offering from the temple.

"It's obviously your _thing_ , wanting to protect humanity," the god said. "I appreciate that."

Crowley peeked around the deity toward the temple grounds. He couldn't see much, from out here. "Is there anything I can do -- to, uh, thank you for your help? Mind, I can't make an offering at any temple; it would cause me a fair amount of harm."

"Keep that terrarium alive," Bhairava said. "Consider it an honor to another of my forms."

Crowley, words failing him once more, gave the god a small bow before departing from the temple's courtyard.

INDIRA GANDHI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

She appeared to be a young woman dressed in a red sari and a warm cape, a long braid falling over her shoulder. A short-handled broom dangled from the rucksack strapped to her back. But Crowley knew, too, that this young woman was two thousand years old if She was a day. This was Shitala, a demigoddess who broke fevers and could dispel bacteria from childrens' blood.

"You have some nerve coming here," She greeted him, looking grumpy. "Most of my brethren discriminate against your kind with extreme prejudice."

"They do," Crowley agreed. "But I'm currently travelling with the best interests of humanity at heart."

"I heard your approach," She said. "Divine energies echo off your wings, did you know?" The cadence of Her voice was like music.

"My wings are kind of like the way you don't see your nose," Crowley replied. "I don't think of them enough to notice any supernatural Doppler effect."

"I just checked in at China Airways. I am flying to the city of Wuhan."

"Yeah, I spoke with Bhairava earlier, and He said there was something happening there. He could sense that the Buddhists were upset. Apparently I'm looking for the one called Saudā."

"Saudā is in Wuhan," Shitala said, fixing Her dark eyes on Crowley. "If you want to find him, that's where you need to go."

Crowley's stomach leapt incrementally, both in anticipation and apprehension.

"Listen, I'm meeting Raktabati there," She said, pulling her cape tighter around herself. "You want to speak to Saudā, and so do we. It's to all of our mutual benefit."

"Do you have a plan?"

"My plan is to assess what's happening. The sickness is all around us, and I need to know what Saudā is planning. I assume that you want answers, too."

Crowley thought briefly of the fourteenth century and folded his arms. "I definitely want answers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lovely beta /sensitivity reader for this work regarding Hindu gods and culture. I have done my best to depict the deities faithfully, but please tell me if you think that my portrayal is inaccurate or disrespectful in any way.


	3. Break Before Mending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Together with Shitala and Raktabati, Crowley goes searching for Saudā.

JANUARY 8th

Plagues and disease had always been present on Earth, but international travel and trade were the things which expanded them to epidemic proportions. Humans were always so slow to understand what was happening. Crowley had to discover things right along with them, though he had more time to attempt to puzzle them out. He tried, but he couldn't contain everything at once. And there wasn't enough storage in his corporation's gray matter to hold onto the myriad things he wove into his essence. It resulted in him forgetting that he knew something, or else not being able to apply it. The process of recalling things impeded itself more often than not, and Crowley eventually gave up on making it work.

One of Crowley’s biggest secrets was that he cared about the humans. Having such a long lifespan meant inevitably getting caught up in their struggles. He was never able to explain that to Hell. _“Your schemes from the past two years brought in roughly ten thousand souls,”_ Dagon told him in 1928. _“Tell me about your methods.”_ While Crowley hadn’t had a hand in any of it, he claimed credit in his usual fashion, which would diminish Hell’s meddling in humanity’s affairs for a short while. When Crowley spoke of despair and disillusionment among the humans, Dagon “ _hmmmd_ ” in a noncommittal way and added a word or two to Crowley’s submission form. Dagon knew, of course, what despair and disillusionment were, but that humans were experiencing those things didn’t affect them in any noticeable way. Of course, most of the demons in Hell had never been able to process their own trauma, and it was futile to expect them to identify with humans’ emotions when they were barely able to manage their own.  
It wasn’t so that Crowley regretted it when a truly awful individual found their way into Hell, but the truly awful humans were increasingly rare. Most of them, billions of them, had all kinds of redeeming qualities. He hated to see them suffer.  
  


When they left the plane and entered the airport proper, Crowley noticed partitioning screens obscuring officials who were making infrared scans of randomly-selected passengers. His skin crawled from the static; it felt like everything was covered in crawling, biting insects. Shitala zipped Her rucksack open and produced a thin branch with long, narrow leaves on it. She handed it to the demon, telling him matter-of-factly to wear it inside his jacket. When he did so, he felt instant relief, like a cool breeze.

Raktabati met them outside the airport, clasping Shitala's hands in a familiar gesture. She presented Herself as a woman in her mid-forties. Her skin would have been olive-tone if it weren't for the extreme pink flush propagating itself across every visible inch. Shitala offered Her a bottle of water, which Raktabati accepted gratefully. The two women spoke in low voices to each other, and Crowley trailed behind them toward a bank of cars.

They hired a taxi and proceeded through the city. Tall, narrow buildings rose up from the concrete ground like gargantuan basalt pillars all around them. The sky above them was ghostly frosted glass broken only by the blurry spot of the sun. Crowley would have rather seen the green places about which he’d read than this imposing gray metropolis, but this was not the occasion for it.

The taxi driver agreed to take them to the Wuhan Museum, which was in close proximity to the Huanan Seafood Market, where they expected to find Saudā. The driver explained that he couldn't take them directly to the market because there was a sinkhole in one of the main streets, or something.

The seafood market, a sort of tunnel stretching between two buildings, was nearly deserted, save for a few merchants loading up the last of their products into trucks and vans. The round electric fixtures hanging from the ceiling supports threw a greenish light down onto the few abandoned empty market stands which remained, bare as bones. Members of the military were not-so-subtly hovering nearby, their faces forbidding and cold.

 _A sinkhole, eh?_ Crowley gave the soldiers a scornful look. _Covering things up that you don't want to go public, is more like it_. Shitala nudged Crowley's arm and pointed. At the opposite end of the corridor stood a single humanoid entity. It was staring at them.

One of the soldiers, gun held diagonally against her chest, approached them. "You cannot stand here," she said. "You have to keep walking."

Raktabati huffed, but they moved on. Crowley peered at the map he’d brought up on his smartphone, leading them in the direction of Youfu Hospital, just down the block. He felt a tad feverish, something which he hadn't experienced more than four or five times in his entire long life. His companions seemed to be unaffected.

Saudā stood waiting for them outside the Hospital. Crowley's stomach lurched, and his mind flashed back to the fourteenth century in the time of the Black Death, when he’d seen the same entity strolling through horrible, dimly-lit rooms full of sickly humans coughing blood and dying within a week. He tried not to think of the unshakable image of an infected woman he had stumbled upon in Dunaj, sprawled in an alleyway, a swelling buboe on her neck the size of a hen's egg. Nestled against the woman's side was a small child. The woman had been holding a blood-stained handkerchief and a rosary as she struggled to pray. The child knew his mother was dying and he whimpered pitifully. He would likely last a few days longer, and those days would be lonely and filled with agony. Crowley's face twisted to match what was happening to his insides. _If only the angel were here_ , Crowley had thought, then. It was a mad thought to have, because what would he have hoped? That Aziraphale would miraculously cure these two, out of the thousands of others who also suffered? That Crowley could be petty and point out that, even amid this grim reality, the Almighty ignored every beseeching prayer? (Perhaps he just wanted to lean on the angel, to escape from the horror, if only for a moment.)

Of course, the one they were meeting now was Pestilence. And though Crowley had known it would be, the dread which seized him was still overwhelming. The human face, with its open sores, skin with purple blushes of spidery veins and a pair of bloodshot eyes, would look very much at home among the inhabitants of Hell. The expensive three-piece suit he wore, which appeared to have once been graphite-colored silk, was stained all the way up the front and the sleeves with blotches of watery red and straw yellow. Static assaulted Crowley's senses, and he clutched for a moment at the branch in his jacket. The two deities at his side were no consolation; they represented both illness and healing. They were likely here to negotiate their terms. Crowley realized he hadn't considered any.

Shitala approached Saudā and did a brief genuflection on the sidewalk. "Greetings to you, Saudā. I have come here with my colleague to request an audience."

"You have it. Time enough. My work is ongoing." Saudā's voice sounded like it was impeded by a profusion of mucus in his airways. He didn't cough or do anything to remedy it.

Raktabati asked, "Is there a place where we can speak at length?"

Saudā motioned to them to follow.

They crossed into the hospital grounds, where everything seemed to be constructed out of utilitarian concrete. They approached a group of benches nearby what looked like a dining hall. Tents were set up around every entrance, and personnel wearing face masks hurried from place to place. The grass of the courtyard looked reasonably healthy for the season in which it found itself, but it withered beneath Saudā's feet as he walked.

A demon, two deities and a Horseman of the Apocalypse sat on the chilly benches in the late-afternoon sun. Crowley offered to miracle drinks. The deities asked for cold water, and Saudā asked for the same, but as dirty as Crowley could manage to find. The demon miracled a Hot Toddy for himself. Ectothermic creatures like him didn't especially enjoy January in the Northern Hemisphere.

"Tell me the reason you wanted an audience with me," Saudā addressed the woman-shaped beings.

"We cannot mistake the power which is coming from this place," Raktabati said. "Because I heard nothing of this disease outbreak beforehand, I want to know if your success is by design, or by chance. Is there a plan in place?"

"No plan," Saudā told Her. He reclined in his seat, languid and content. "It was favorable circumstance. I was lying dormant, subsisting only on the seeds of great diseases beaten back. Antibiotic resistant bacteria has been my main source of sustenance, but it has been a piss-poor substitute for the glorious days of the Black Death. Even SARS and the mighty Ebola could not awaken me from my slumber." He took a long drink from the glass of brown water. "But this is a strong virus. Changeable. Resilient. It is precisely what I have been hoping for. Beautifully parasitic; it feeds upon the humans, and I feed upon it."

"What is it?" Raktabati asked, the ice cubes in Her glass clinking as She drank. "I have heard viral pneumonia, but that's ordinary. This one is new. The humans are having trouble treating it."

"Oh, it's a good one," Saudā said, a wistful smile crossing his thin, colorless lips. "Passes from animals to humans; always so delicious when that happens. The human immune system struggles against the infection. Impediment of breathing is a major symptom. The worst infections rise in the air, and they are, to me, the sweetest incense."

 _All right, that sounds ghastly_ , Crowley thought as he coiled his hands around his warm mug.

"Parameters?" Shitala inquired.

"Incubation period of up to two weeks," Saudā’s grin was missing a couple of teeth. "People don't realize they have contracted it. Some have a fever within a few days, but they don't suspect it's more than influenza. An intermediate death toll, but that's no concern to me. That's a different Horseman."

"Is it treatable?" Raktabati asked.

"Eventually."

"Then I intend to instigate the human discovery of treatment," Shitala said, Her voice wavering a tiny bit. "I will, however, respect your need for sustenance."

Saudā opened his eyes wide, his smile disappearing. "You had better, you upstart half-god herbalist. My season has come, and I will not have your meddling rob me of what is mine."

"I myself gain a measure of my power from humans praying for relief from disease," Shitala told him in a waspish tone. "I have a vested interest in the infection."

 _They sound like shareholders at a stock exchange_ , Crowley thought, feeling more than a little disgust. _These are_ people _we're talking about, with identities and ambitions. With lives._

"I propose a period of six months,"Raktabati suggested in a placating voice. "The infection can disperse to every part of the world before the humans cotton to it. During that time, we will compel Ganesha not to reveal how it must be treated. We can profit from their prayers to gain strength, and Saudā can build himself up."

"To this, I state my counterproposal," Saudā replied. "The treatment will be in short supply, and it will not be universal. As the virus changes, the treatment will have to change. Each change requires time for adaptation."

"This is acceptable," Shitala said.

"I have a proposal," Crowley found himself speaking up. Everyone's head turned in his direction.

Saudā fixed his rheumy eyes dispassionately on the demon. "Yes, Serpent?"

Crowley tried not to sound as tense as he felt. "I propose you leave the kids out of it."

"Children will not be infected?" Saudā stared at him, still expressionless.

"That's right." It was very difficult, Crowley thought, to hold the gaze of a being so powerful. It was the same reason why he tended to avoid eye contact with archdemons.

Finally, Saudā inclined his head. "That is easy enough to build into the infection. I can more than manage with the adult population. It is a reasonable request."

Shitala zipped open Her rucksack again, and took out a Mason jar filled with pulses. (Crowley wondered how on Earth She had gotten through customs with it.) She opened the lid and picked out the largest pods, and then handed them to Saudā. The Horseman held them under his nose for a moment, inhaling some imperceptible fragrance. "This is our agreement," he said. "Six months' uninhibited spread. I will choose where and when the peaks occur. The virus will be allowed to mutate. You may introduce research, information, and antagonists. The children will be spared."

Both Shitala and Raktabati performed a respectful genuflection. Crowley felt mildly repulsed at being included in the proceedings, but he nodded, anyway.

It had been a lot of travel and searching for such a short meeting. Crowley wondered how many other deities were going to meet with Saudā. Sonzwaphi and Obalúwayé would probably be on their way to Wuhan as soon as the first of their people began to cough. Depending on how widespread this thing became, maybe even one or two deities in Eastern Europe and the Americas would make the journey.

The Earthbound gods weren't really his concern. Crowley's proposal was accepted; it was all he could come up with to help in the face of something so massive and impactful. He puffed up a little; he had been viewed as an equal among the representatives for the human world. His entire Earthly life had been marked by his terrible contribution to human knowledge (and suffering). This new role of open advocacy was one in which he knew he’d be comfortable.

The three beings walked toward the Wuhan Narada Grand Hotel, where Raktabati had been staying. The lobby was typically spare for this part of the world: sleek modern woodwork and minimalistic floral frescos covered the wall behind the desk. Raktabati spoke to Crowley. "It was clever of you to advocate for the world's children. They are so vulnerable; viruses mostly like to go after them first. It would never have occurred to me to ask." She dug her keycard out of her satchel. "Will you remain in China, Serpent of Eden?"

"No, I'm based --- I live in London, now."

"Better to keep an eye on that angel, I suppose?"

 _Might as well be honest,_ he thought. _I doubt She cares, one way or the other_. "Yes, as a matter of fact. Because who knows what he'd get up to without me to keep him in check?"

"The angel was _she_ when we met, in the sixteenth century." Raktabati smiled at the demon. "She wouldn't explain what she was doing in Bhārat, but we did have a delightful afternoon sharing stories with some friends of mine in Bombay."

 _Probably taking over for one of my temptations,_ Crowley thought.

"I met him during the smallpox epidemic in the late eighteenth century," Shitala nodded. "A good fellow. Very polite."

A silence fell between them. Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets. "Well, I suppose I'll be getting back, then."

"It's a wise idea," Shitala said. "The city will be closing up fast as anything. Safe travels, and give my regards to your angel."

Crowley opened his mouth to say "I will," but his words seemed to trip over themselves when his brain caught up with _your angel_. The two deities shared a knowing little smile. "We wish you much happiness," Raktabati said.

The flush on Crowley's face probably rivalled the one on Raktabati's features. "Uh -- thanks. See you around."

When Crowley arrived back in Heathrow, he felt the static crackling in a few places around him. _That's what it was, then, during our dinner. I noticed the virus, unnaturally strong, because it's carrying around the energy of Pestilence. It won't take long to spread._

He sent a quick text to Aziraphale to indicate he'd returned home safely (a new habit of theirs), and another to say that he was taking it easy for a few days.

Aziraphale's reply was amicable. "Of course. Do take care of yourself. Will see you soon!"

JANUARY 11 th  
  


“Hello, Adam. I investigated what’s happening.”  
  
“I really appreciate it, Mister Crowley. Was it hard to find them?”  
  
“Not really, but I had some help. The Horseman in question is Pestilence. He supposedly retired last century, late 1930’s. He’s started the spread of a virus, and it will reach pretty much every part of Earth.”  
  
There was a pause as the boy considered it. “That sounds bad.”  
  
“It is. It will be. I asked him if he would keep it away from kids, and he said yes.”  
  
“So it’s only grown-ups who will catch it?”  
  
“I think so. It’s what we agreed.”  
  
Adam sighed on the other end of the line. “So that means I’ll probably have to protect my parents. And my friends’ parents. I don’t think I can manage too much more. My powers aren’t that strong, since, you know. The airbase thing.”  
  
“You’re right to do that, to be honest. It sounds like it will be nasty. But don’t get worked up about protecting everyone. Just do what you can.”  
  
“All right. Maybe I’ll see if I can squeeze in a few more. My gran, and Mister Tyler. I don’t want them to get sick, either.”  
  
“You’re a good lad, Adam. Take care.”  
  
“I will. Thank you, Mister Crowley.”  
  



	4. Forward, Backward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley attempts to steer things toward normal again. In spite of a spate of coziness, Pestilence's return to power is a hard thing to ignore.

JANUARY 24th

Aziraphale invited Crowley to see _Kunene and the King_ at the Ambassadors theater. They enjoyed an authentic Indian meal at Dishoom in Covent Garden, and while they proceeded with the main course Crowley remembered to pass on Shitala's regards to Aziraphale.

"That wasn't so very long ago," the angel said, plucking another piece of naan from the platter to his left. "The eighteenth century; Her worship was thriving, if I'm not mistaken." He paused, looking contemplative above his plate of Awadhi lamb. "She must be active because of that viral pneumonia going around in Asia."

"...Yes, lots of prayers coming Her way," Crowley agreed, attempting nonchalance. _I don't want to tell you about Pestilence. I don't want this, our golden season, to end._ "You, uh, heard about that, then?"

"I did," Aziraphale replied. He continued to eat and drink quietly for some moments before he spoke again. "The city of Wuhan has gone into lockdown; it was on the news. I saw a video of people calling out encouragement to one another from their balconies, because they were forbidden to leave their homes."

"If that’s the case, it must have really got out of hand."

"Quite. But what can one expect of infectious disease in such a populous place?"

He could tell that Aziraphale wondered if it had anything to do with his recent trip, but that his friend didn't want to pry. Crowley asked about one of the lead actors in the play they would be seeing, and the angel was quick to latch onto the subject.

JANUARY 30th

London was the very definition of itself, rainy and gray. Crowley was busy setting up a new television box for Aziraphale. The current provider had switched to new hardware, and the angel had called upon the demon as soon as the set-top-box was delivered. Aziraphale poured tea for the two of them and then moved to peer over Crowley’s shoulder.

“I do hope I’ll be able to navigate this new thing,” he said. “I do so dislike having to adjust to a different setup.”

“You don’t say,” Crowley replied, getting to his feet. _I remember the drama involved when one of your ancient LP’s of Brahms’ Symphony number three wore out. It took me eight bloody months to find another one, because it absolutely had to be that particular recording._ “I’ve hooked it up. We can test it out, if you like.”

“I suppose we could. I’m not feeling much for opening up the shop today.”  
Crowley consulted a photo he'd searched of the older remote, comparing it to the new one. "Look, this button brings up the schedule," he said. "This button's for an internet browser. That's the point of the tiny keyboard on the back, apparently."

"Useful, though I suspect you'll be the most frequent user of that fiddly keyboard."

"Doesn't look like anything much on at the moment, but you have limited on-demand choices." Crowley scrolled through the bars of the guide. "Anything sound interesting?"

"Oh, you choose something," Aziraphale waved one hand while holding his teacup in the other. "You know my tastes."

"Nothing in color? All actors involved no longer among the living?"

"Oh, do stop being such a smart-arse." He held out a plate laden with fig rolls, and Crowley, unable to contain a giggle, took one.

FEBRUARY 28 th

“The Prime Minister is being an utter git about the whole thing,” Crowley grumbled, laying aside the tablet on which he’d been reading a BBC news article. “I won’t read anything more he’s said, unless I want to give myself indigestion.”

“He’s a stubborn man,” Aziraphale agreed while clearing away the tea tray with empty cups and plates. “Not nearly so much as some other world leaders, however --”

“Please, let’s not talk about it. Tell me about the antique book seminar.”

“Oh, yes, I meant to get back to that! Well, as it happens, a collector friend of mine, Bethany, suspects there will be a number of first-edition Jules Verne books up for auction during the event. She knew I was missing _From Earth to the Moon_ from my collection. Of course, it isn’t the only reason I would want to go. There will also be a lecture and discussion panel about the influence of science fiction on literature from the past seventy-five years, and I would be simply thrilled to hear some of the thoughts of a few of the modern literary experts.”

“ _Around the World in Eighty Days,”_ Crowley intoned. “ _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea._ Very imaginative, for his day.”

“Certainly. The notion of a library in a submarine was so delightful when I first read it. Of course, I hadn’t yet encountered one from the inside…”

“It’s just off Skye, isn’t it? The seminar?” Crowley’s brain was already turning its gears, intent on booking the coziest hotel or B&B he could find. _Like old times, when we would meet someplace with sturdy woodwork, drinks from a local brewery; the rough edges of winter still sticking to spring, the wind whistling outside. You could tell me again about how you got to meet Herbert Wells, and how convinced you are that his was the mind behind the formation of the UN._ Crowley craned his neck back to look toward the kitchenette. “Angel?”

“Indeed, very close to Skye,” Aziraphale replied distractedly. He was reading something on his own smartphone, still a somewhat discordant sight. “’Global risk raised to the highest level,’” he murmured. “Oh, dear.”

_Yeah, it will be three months before it will start to get better,_ Crowley thought. _I am willing to turn everything upside-down so that I don’t have to think about it. Distract me, Angel._ “I could look into a few places to stay,” he offered. “A few days on Skye; change of scenery. Clear our heads.”

Aziraphale brightened. “I wouldn’t be opposed to it. The views there can be marvelous. You’ve always known how to find the good places.”

“Yeah? All right, I’ll see what I can find.” He waggled the television remote at Aziraphale. “Did you still want to watch _QI?”_

“Yes. What would you prefer to drink?”

“I think you still have some of that wheat ale I brought at Christmas. Good stuff. Goes well with a packet of crisps.”

“As luck would have it, I do have some crisps.”

“Hurry up, Angel, the opening sequence is already going.”

“There is, of course, a rewind function.”

“Since when do _you_ know how to use the set-top-box?” Crowley exclaimed.

“I do believe I was the first one of us to own a computer,” Aziraphale said with a haughty raise of his chin. “I’m not a complete luddite.”

“Oh, I apologize for underestimating your technical prowess,” the demon snarked. “Perhaps I’ll ask _you_ to hook up _my_ electronics, next time.”

The angel wore a wry smile as he handed his friend a bottle of beer and a glass.

In the first half of March, Crowley tried not to overwhelm Aziraphale with visits. He went out of his way to divert his thoughts from the omnipresent gloom. He helped a human friend for a few days with home renovations in Shepherd’s Bush. (It was a relief and a pleasure to openly help humans now, instead of tying himself in all kinds of knots to hide it from Hell.) Another friend had caught a tenacious rhinovirus and had to cancel their lunch date, so Crowley left a hamper on her doorstep with chicken soup, tea, and a DVD about space produced by Professor Brian Cox. He put away his frivolous temptation traps and walked through shopping streets while casting out lines of suggestion: _The weather is shite. Better buy what you came here for and head back home._ On three separate occasions, he drove miles out of London to quietly initiate a miraculous production increase in a few face mask factories.

MARCH 15th

He found Aziraphale in the upstairs sitting room, where he sat watching the midday news. “Oh, Crowley, I should have greeted you --- “

“No worries, Angel. I just came up to ask if I could interest you in dinner.”

“I’m afraid most of the places in the area are temporarily closing for service,” Aziraphale frowned. “We might have something delivered, though.”

“Sounds good.” Crowley observed the signs of tension: Aziraphale’s hands clamped onto each other, posture rigid, rose-red lips twisted tight. _I would probably do that, too, if Hell hadn’t trained me to suppress most of the outward signs of anxiety._ He plunked himself down beside the angel and gave him a gentle nudge. “You’re strung like a bow, Aziraphale. I’ve seen you do this before.” He picked up the remote and turned off the television. “I know it’s looking grim, but it will turn out all right. We’ve got to count on modern medicine.”

“It’s not doing the trick so far,” Aziraphale whispered.

“It will. The humans just need time.”

“We’ve only narrowly escaped the End Times,” the angel continued. “What if this is a sign that our sides are regrouping?” Aziraphale bowed his head, and Crowley took hold of one of his hands.

“It’s not, Angel, it’s not. Neither of the sides knows what the hell they’re doing. This is just another plague. We’ve been through plenty of those.” Crowley racked his brain for something reassuring. “It’s normally the humans who first start spouting off about ‘God’s punishment’ and the End of Days. You’re an angel. You know it’s not true. Ocean’s full of plastic, not blood. There aren’t even any trumpets sounding, or anything. We’d have heard ‘em.”

Aziraphale breathed out a tiny laugh.

“Listen, I’ll order something delicious, and we’ll light a little fire, stay in and watch a film or two. How does that sound?”

“It… it sounds nice,” Aziraphale nodded.

Crowley pulled his phone from his pocket. “What’ll it be?”

He interpreted Aziraphale’s sigh as a positive turn. The angel scrunched his face a little and asked, “Would you be averse to hamburgers?”

Crowley exhaled a laugh of his own. “’Course not. What was that place where I had the jalapeño burger? Started with an ‘F.’”

“Frank and Fred’s.” Aziraphale leaned back into the couch, the warmth where their shoulders had been touching receding. “Thick-cut chips, and American-style onion rings, if you please.”

When the food was ordered, Crowley consulted the television guide. “ _Pride & Prejudice _is on Channel Five in ten minutes,” he told the angel. “’S got a fair few decent actors in it. Want to watch that with me?”

“Oh, they’ve undoubtedly slaughtered the story,” Aziraphale said, “but it is entertaining to watch things with you, so go ahead.”

“This Mister Darcy is actually very good,” Crowley commented. “You’ll like it, I promise.”

After the film had run and the food had been consumed, they remained on the couch and watched an episode of _Blue Planet_ on BBC One. Crowley allowed himself to almost completely dissolve into the aquatic scenes on the screen. He surfaced now and then to exclaim about something, keeping Aziraphale from swimming too close to the shore.

MARCH 24th

Crowley's phone buzzed in his pocket. He read a text message from Gov.uk, which stated "New rules in force now: you must stay at home. More info and exemptions at gov.uk/coronavirus Stay at home. Protect the NHS. Save lives."

Shortly afterward, his phone buzzed again. A message from Aziraphale. "The seminar was cancelled. I'm afraid we will have to call off our midweek on Skye. What a shame!"

Crowley had been looking forward to a few uninterrupted days of ambling around seaside landscapes, eating at places where the poshest thing on the menu was a fish stick sarnie, and getting in a few of the all-important casual touches. _Maybe one or two more-than-casual ones._ The cottage he’d booked had an air of quaint pastoral charm which would have had Aziraphale quoting the Brontës left and right. The location itself was breathtaking, a rocky flat beach stretching toward an expanse of water with mountains in the distance. The photos had shown a clear blue sky, but it would have been equally appealing under a brooding cloud cover. Crowley had anticipated evenings seated in the opposing wingback chairs, warming drinks in hand and a fire in the wood stove. Maybe bring out the chess board. He felt himself wither, inwardly, like a parched plant. "No matter, Angel," he typed. "We'll reschedule."

MARCH 27th

Crowley stood and stared helplessly at the television hanging from the concrete wall of his office. The newsreader spoke of _intensive care rapidly approaching maximum capacity_ and _the importance of self-isolating._ Heart-rending videos showed hospitals in Italy, where harried and exhausted medical personnel were working to treat the new plague. Crowley’s throat was cinched tight. He wished that he had bargained with Pestilence for more leniency.

_Italy is a catastrophe,_ he thought, sitting down heavily at his desk. _And it’s going to look like that here, soon. It’s going to look like that everywhere. ‘Uninhibited spread,’ Pestilence said. I should have argued for a quicker discovery of the cure. Maybe I should have gone to find Ganesha, see whether He held any sway in the matter._

The demon leaned his elbows on the cold marble desktop and rested his head in his hands. _It’s only March. This month has lasted a fucking year. And there’s still so much time left for the humans to suffer. I should have done better._

APRIL 6th

Crowley kept his tone light when he telephoned Aziraphale.

“I read that a tiger in America tested positive.”

"Goodness. This sort of thing hasn’t happened in donkey’s years, as they say.”

“Nobody says that anymore.”

The angel ignored him. “ _Really,_ though. The prime minister in hospital, and the Queen herself addressing the people from the television. This is unprecedented."  
  
"It's not as though monarchs and politicians are less likely to contract a virus, Angel."

"No, of course not. I was simply highlighting this new medium of communication. There have been televised addresses before, for other dire circumstances. I was thinking what a blessing it might have been in previous centuries, to have television and internet to inform the people. Social distancing and lockdowns might have saved hundreds of thousands."

"Except internet wouldn't have caught on then, considering very few people were able to read."

"Well, and electricity being rather lacking."

"And computers. And telephone lines."

"Political conspiracies would be equally prevalent, I should think. But, oh, dear me, imagine how much more intrigue, subterfuge, and barbaric retaliation there would have been--"

"Those happen now, too, Angel." Crowley had draped himself on the divan he’d miracled in the living room, trying to inspire himself to relax. It wasn’t really helping. He changed his posture on his couch; shoved a designer pillow into the small of his back. "If you knew what kind of corruption is simmering at the foundations of some of the biggest corporations..."

"Well, humans are opportunistic, at heart."

"That’s one way of putting it. So, what are you up to, lately?"

"Oh, I've been catching up on a novel or two. A friend left a few books just outside my door while she was walking to the Underground station the other day. And you?"

"Books left outside? Must not be very good ones."

Aziraphale sighed. "They were in a plastic bin, for goodness' sake."

Crowley grinned. "I'm, uh --- monitoring some internet-based trouble I set up a while back. I'm not much for programming, but this is a straightforward thing. Wind it up and let it go."

"I don't doubt that it's very clever. Perhaps you can show me, the next time we see each other."

_The next time we see each other, Angel, the last thing on my mind is going to be explaining my well-planned derailment of some elaborate Bitcoin mining operation._ He slipped a hand into the open collar of his shirt and rubbed the space under his clavicle. "Sure. I can bring a few nibbles and whatnot. Wine, a plate of charcuterie and a run-down of my latest wicked wiles."

Even without the benefit of his presence, Crowley could almost hear the twinkle in Aziraphale's eyes. "That would be lovely."

APRIL 16th

"A three-week extension, as I'm sure you've heard."

"I heard." Crowley sighed at the smartphone resting on his work bench. He set down the mini trowel he'd been using to repot the stripy-leafed butterfly plant and picked up the phone. "I'm running out of ideas to pass the time. I've now inconvenienced every one of my plants in some way or another, to keep ‘em on their toes. I've switched my decor twice in the space of ten days--"

"Oh?" Aziraphale sounded moderately interested. "Have you ordered things? Or been out shopping?"

"Neither. Just miracled them. A warehouse in Surrey is missing some furniture."

The angel groaned. "Crowley, you know I cannot condone outright theft."

"M'only borrowing them. They were just gathering dust, anyway, with everything closed. I'll put 'em back."

"Hmmm. Well, I've been watching a few things on the television; never thought it would be my cup of tea, but It's lovely to be able to -- oh, what was the term again? Watching an entire series without stopping?"

"Binge watching."

"I binge watched a fair amount of Downton Abbey, and a bit of an American series, though I can't recall the name. Oh, and I found Bake Off so very entertaining. Of course, I ended up having a terrible craving for baked goods--"

"I'm sure you could get something delivered. Support your local whatever."

"I probably could." Aziraphale murmured something, and Crowley heard utensils rattling. "Maybe I could try my hand at that Victoria sponge; it didn't seem so very difficult..."

APRIL 19th

“Hi, Angel."

"Hello, dear. How nice to hear from you again so soon."

"I forgot to ask how the terrarium was getting on."

"It looks as healthy as anything," Aziraphale said brightly. "No sign of slugs, either."

"Make sure it's damp enough. Not as in peat bog damp, but keep an eye on morning condensation. And don't let them get all spread out. Show them those hand shears I gave you, that'll inspire them to behave."

He heard Aziraphale chuckle. "Of course."

Crowley faltered a bit in his facade of carefree chatting. "I was thinking about taking a trip to Montenegro when things get back to normal," he lowered his voice a note or two, more to the tune of tempting. "You'd be more than welcome to join me. Remember Lake Biograd?"

"Oh, that was ages ago. Yes, I remember,” Aziraphale grumbled. “It rained every day, while we were there.”

"That's why we should see it with good weather. Glorious place to kick back and stare at nature. And no assignments. Just us. Maybe set up a sturdy tent, like old times." _Sleep back-to-back for warmth. Or I could volunteer to be the little spoon._

"It would have to be good weather."

“Oh, but it’s so warm there in summer, Angel. Have you seen recent photos? We could go out on a boat; I’d row you around on that quiet blue lake while you brush up on your reading in Serbo-Croatian.”

“Hmm, it could very well be worth revisiting.”

"You used to love hearing the folk tales. Spent hours and hours sitting around fireplaces in hostels listening to people tell them. You ended up having to write them down at some point, as I recall. There have got to be some good collections, just waiting for you to get a look at them. Furthermore, I've still got that little pocket dimension that follows me around; could tuck away a little something. Maybe some really good baklava. You were all about that place in Doclea that did the eighteen-layer one, with hazelnuts. Didn't they caramelize them? And every crisp layer thinner than paper. Amazing."

"You are far too good at what you do," Aziraphale said, sounding slightly perturbed. He _hmphed,_ and then there was a muffled thud. "So, that's as good a spot as any."

"What on Earth are you doing?"

"Well, you'll probably think it's ridiculous, but a friend of mine asked if I might try his online yoga lessons. He planned to do regular classes, but as everything is currently closed ---"

"Aziraphale, really? Yoga?"

The angel sounded affronted. "Well, it's a dignified ancient art. And it's supposedly quite invigorating."

Crowley fell still, not trusting his mouth and his thoughts to politely ignore one another, and finally said, "I sssssuppose."

"I agreed to give him some feedback on the difficulty level, as a beginner," Aziraphale continued. "I've just put down a mat here in the living room. I can get YouTube on the set-top-box now that it’s had an update."

Crowley couldn't help but laugh. "So you'll be spending the Lord's Day twisting into pretzels in the lounge in front of the television. Do enjoy yourself."

"I am endeavoring to help a friend," Aziraphale sighed. "I might be lacking levels of flexibility similar to yours, but I will try to manage a decent assessment."

"I dare you to send me a photo."

"You are _incorrigible_."

Crowley lay on his charcoal-gray duvet, the rectangle of glass beside him no longer giving him Aziraphale's voice. It had been only five weeks since he’d seen the angel, but his absence seemed more pronounced now that all physical interaction had ceased. Crowley’s inside knowledge of the pandemic’s course weighed heavy in his chest. _Pestilence has free reign until June._ Would the infections be under control then? He hoped so, but he didn’t want to kid himself; no pandemic simply stopped. It had taken so very long, for example, for humanity to fight smallpox to a standstill.

_At least kids won’t be in the thick of it this time_ , he thought.

“Should I tell Aziraphale?” he asked himself aloud. “Would he judge me for not trying to haggle for more?” But he knew that his friend wouldn’t. They had both been through plagues, and Pestilence had been unwaveringly intransigent. Mercy for a mortal world which constantly fought against him? Never. No creature, ethereal or occult, could stay that hand when it took up its purpose.

_I should just talk with him about it. Get it off my chest. Don’t want him to think I’m keeping things from him._

He tried, and failed, not to picture Aziraphale teetering in clumsy postures in his living room. He would be barefoot, dressed in -- a t-shirt? With sweatpants? He'd never seen the angel in either of those, but the scenario in his imagination was endearing. _You ridiculous entity. Do you miss me, as well? I wish you'd say it._

"What do I presume to want from you that you haven't already given me?" he spoke to the stillness. He already knew the answer. He placed his right hand on the left side of his face, caressing his cheekbone with his thumb. His left hand rested heavily against the right side of his ribcage. He imagined an embrace; a kiss to his brow, impossibly tender. He held this posture for a few minutes; a new position of yoga, the Reclining Lovelorn Demon.

MAY 1st

"' _I'm not miserable_ ,'" Crowley mused, imitating Aziraphale's voice. "Of course you aren't. You have about twenty coping mechanisms at the ready for this sort of thing. _Baking_ ," he snorted. "Gah. Make that twenty-one." He sighed, thinking again of the hand on his lapel at New Year’s, the look on the angel's face which flitted from warmth and humor to fondness, and then the eyebrows slowly creeping upwards as the angel's gaze briefly alighted on his mouth. "I should have kissed you," Crowley muttered. And not a quick peck, like they had sometimes done in greeting, in accordance with societal norms. Not a brotherly press of lips to a cheek, during which he could just barely inhale enough of that specific, angelic scent. (All angels had a pleasant smell about them, in the same way demons smelled, in varying degrees, of brimstone. But this was that intoxicating _Aziraphale_ scent, a characteristic of his corporation which could not be obscured by Earthly cologne, and which Crowley secretly adored.) No, he wanted, just the once, to feel that singular flare of passion which accompanied a Very Good Kiss, and he wanted to feel it, at long last, in the angel's arms.

Now, a substantial chunk of London separated him from his best friend. His _beloved._ _I still haven't called him that. There are still a few steps in between hand-kisses and declaring someone your beloved._ He wouldn't say such a thing on the phone, which was a superficial facsimile of actual conversation. He needed to see Aziraphale's face. And he needed to be completely and utterly blatant about his intentions, because the angel still hadn’t seen through his offer to visit, and the steps in between hand-kisses and declarations were becoming more unbearable by the minute.

He was out of distractions from the awful state of things, and the angel obviously wasn’t ready to open up and let him in. Crowley snapped all of the window dressings shut. He transformed the walls of the plant room into glass, essentially turning the whole thing into one giant terrarium. He set the alarm on his phone to the first of July, and then deposited himself in bed, blankets pulled up to his ears.


End file.
